


The Last Letter

by orchidork08



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidork08/pseuds/orchidork08
Summary: Ash Lynx falls for a boy who saves him from his crushing past. But when he loses that boy, he loses everything. Until one day, when they meet again...
Relationships: Ash Lynx & Okumura Eiji, Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Lee Yut-Lung & Sing Soo-Ling
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**October 2018**

Ash sat on the window ledge, gazing unseeingly out the open window, his memories stuck in another lifetime. It had been almost two years since _his_ —Ash couldn’t even think _his_ name without letting the gut wrenching anguish tear at his heart—death. _He’d_ promised Ash that _he_ would return to him, safe and sound, but only after _he_ had completed _his_ final international photojournalism assignment, during which _he_ would be chronicling the events of a war-ravaged region in the Middle East for a month. But _he_ never came back. Instead, only _his_ photos and a single letter _he’d_ written to Ash did. 

The photos, although not unexpected, took Ash’s breath away with their horror. The images assaulted his senses. He could visualize the flashes of fire and shrapnel catapulting through the air, smell the acrid stench of burning flesh, hear the screams of women as they held onto the carcasses of their husband and children. And _he_ had stood in the front lines of Hell on Earth, documenting every moment of these people’s ruined lives through _his_ camera lens. 

More than the photos, it was the contents of the letter that alarmed Ash. Ash could almost envision it: _he_ sat on the muddied floor of a dingy safe house, struggling to still _his_ shaking hand and the tears that fell from _his_ eyes as _he_ attempted to describe _his_ nightmarish journey in the Middle East and explain why he couldn’t return. Ash could only imagine _his_ helplessness and the guilt that devastated _him_ when _he_ realized that _he_ couldn’t escape the debt of so many lives lost, as if _he himself_ had killed them with _his_ own bare hands. Most likely, with _his_ empathetic nature, _he_ couldn’t stop wondering why _he_ was given the opportunity to live when mere innocent children had been destined to die. And so _he_ wrote _his_ last letter, _his_ only letter to Ash, pouring out _his_ irrevocable and depthless love for Ash and apologizing over and over for breaking _his_ promise, all through the words of _his_ shattering mind. 

Ash pulled himself from his murky thoughts. His eyes returned to the present, darting around his dark bedroom, focusing in on the empty bed that was next to his own and once belonged to the man whom he would always consider as his soulmate. When he realized his mind was wandering back to more painful avenues, which it was often wont to do, he immediately backtracked and gazed down at the cityscape below him. It was nearly 9:30 PM and raindrops fell from the sky, but New York City remained wide awake as ever with its bright lights and bustling streets. The cool night breeze wafted across Ash’s face and briefly calmed him. But it wasn’t long until his attention was revisiting the letter he gripped in his hand like a vice, a letter containing words he’d read a thousand times and had long since committed to memory, a letter that was stained with the tears of two and the blood of one. 

On his nightstand, his cellphone rang, incessant, but remained ignored, the name Shorter Wong flashing over and over. Instead, Ash repeated three lines out loud like a mantra in the dark and quiet room. 

_“My soul is always with you. In life, in death, and whatever lies beyond. Forgive me, Ash.”_

The sobs broke free, but he never felt at peace. 

\--

“Ash! Ash! ASH!”

Ash awoke with a start. Bleary-eyed, he turned his head away from his pillow and glowered at the man standing over him. He watched a grinning Shorter pop his gum and run a hand through his purple mohawk. 

“How did you get inside?” Ash asked, groggy, his voice quieter and less enraged than he would’ve liked it to be. 

Shorter was suddenly twirling a keychain around his index finger, a silent answer to Ash’s question. “The old man gave it to me. Said you had a deadline coming up soon and he needed a rough draft handed in by next week. Naturally, I offered to check up on you to see what kind of shenanigans you were up to.” 

Ash nodded. If he weren’t so exhausted, he would’ve teased Shorter on his use of the word ‘shenanigans.’ Instead, he looked out the window at the sunlight filtering into the room, trying to gauge the time of day. 

Shorter read his mind. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. You missed breakfast and you’re about to miss lunch.” He gestured towards the bathroom as he turned to leave Ash’s bedroom. “Go freshen up and I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Nadia made you some of her Special Chinese Breakfast.” 

Ash wanted to argue with Shorter, plead with him for _just five more minutes of sleep!_ —but he knew that it would be futile. Shorter was always looking out for him. And after what’d happened last night—something that occurred on one too many nights—when he’d ignored all of Shorter’s phone calls just to spend time punishing himself with memories about _him_ , Shorter would spend the next day observing him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t cage himself into the dark recesses of his mind yet again. During those first few months, when Ash had receded into himself after learning about _his_ death, it was Shorter who had remained glued to his side, despite his protests, and helped him hope again, if not for a brighter future, then for a future where Ash didn’t have to struggle to make it through a single hour. Now, because of Shorter, Ash could live through an entire week without falling apart. It was a debt he knew he could never, ever repay.

So rather than being difficult, Ash nodded again, pushed the covers off, and headed into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror’s reflection and took a moment to appraise his appearance. The dark shadows under his eyes were a permanent fixture on his face; they had been for almost two years now. His green eyes had dulled significantly; they could no longer be considered jade. It was odd how verdant they once had been despite Ash’s having lived through so much trauma and tragedy during his childhood and teenage years. But one tragedy that was fresher than the others and infinitely more excruciating had sucked the life out of those eyes. His gaze swept down the length of his torso, and he clicked his tongue at the cachectic appearance of his body, which was visible even through his oversized nightshirt. Disgusted, he turned away and began brushing his teeth, keeping his eyes studiously away from the mirror. 

Although he had stayed up until 4 AM working on the manuscript of his next book, his effort had been perfunctory; he’d hardly made any real progress. There was a mental block keeping him from caring about the characters he’d once been attached to. Try as he might, he didn’t even bother worrying about the approaching deadline or the fact that he would be disappointing Max and Ibe-san for the thousandth time. He shrugged to himself, finished his shower, pulled on one of _his_ shirts, and walked into the kitchen where Shorter was waiting in front of an island covered with Nadia’s freshly microwaved Tupperware containers. 

If Shorter noticed anything peculiar about Ash’s shirt, he didn’t comment. He focused on shoveling food into his mouth. “We gotta hurry up and eat. Max wants you at the office in an hour. I think he’s gonna rip you a new asshole.”

Ash sat down in his chair and helped himself to a steamed bun. “I figured.”

“You probably deserve it.”

“I probably do.”

“There’s absolutely no remorse in your voice.” Shorter laughed.

“I’m…” Ash struggled to find the word, “…indifferent, I guess. I don’t have it in me to actually give a shit.” He bit into another bun and grimaced when it burned his tongue.

Shorter didn’t respond. He looked down at his plate and hid his pity from his friend.

\--

“Yo, old man. I brought Ash along, just like I’d promised.”

When Shorter and Ash strode into the main office of Glenreed Publishing House, Max Lobo, Ash’s editor and adoptive father, was bent over his desk, poring over a manuscript. He made no indication that he’d heard them enter, instead muttering to himself and scratching his head with the end of his pen.

Ibe-san wasn’t there, but his camera lay on a corner of Max’s desk, which meant that he was somewhere in the building. Ash resolved to leave before he returned. The knowledge that Ibe-san could waltz into the room at any moment and strike up a conversation with him, a conversation that would inevitably lead to Ibe-san reminiscing about the man whom they both still cherished—albeit in different ways—had him almost bolting out the door. But Ash kept his feet planted firmly on the ground.

 _I can do this_ , he told himself, gritting his teeth in determination _. I need to stop running away._

Yes, talking about _him_ with others was distressing, but there were only so many times he could run from his past. After a while, people stopped being sympathetic, and he was starting to suspect that it would only be a matter of time before Max and Ibe-san reached their limit.

“Earth to Ash?” Shorter waved a hand in front of Ash’s face.

Ash blinked and jerked back to the present. He shook some of the blond strands of hair from his eyes. “Sorry. I zoned out for a second.”

“No kidding.” Max was scrutinizing him carefully, his gaze sharp but filled with concern. “If you’re worried about Shunichi being around, you don’t have to be. I told him to make himself scarce for the next hour or so. He understood, and he’s not mad at you.”

Ash didn’t know how to respond, and so he chose to ignore Max’s words altogether. “So what is it that I can do for you, old man?” he asked. His tone feigned irritation because it was better than expressing the apathy he was really feeling.

Max saw right through him but played along. He righted himself, adopting a businesslike attitude. “Right. Well, I was reviewing part of your rough draft and after much consideration, I’ve decided to toss it.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Ash’s asked, his voice impassive, robotic. He didn’t have the energy to muster up any sort of outrage.

“Come on, Ash. Both you and I know that this—this stuff is horseshit. This is not you, Ash! You’re better than this. Your writing—it’s—it’s—this just isn’t it.”

Shorter flinched. He’d never been an avid reader. But when it came to Ash’s words and the stories they told, he was left mesmerized and yearning for more. He devoured each and every letter, in awe of the fastidiousness Ash placed in developing his characters and their actions, their conflicts. More than that, however, Shorter was thankful to Ash for sharing and trusting his deepest and most soulful thoughts with him and tens and thousands of strangers who were as deeply captivated as Shorter was.

So when Max uttered those words, the words that told of Ash’s dishonesty, Shorter’s hopes plummeted, not just as a fan but also as a companion who was worried about Ash’s wellbeing. His friend no longer trusted anyone; to Ash, the world and its people had become strangers. They say that time heals all wounds. But it had been two years since _his_ death—Shorter didn’t dare to think _his_ name, let alone say it aloud in Ash’s presence—and yet Ash could barely hold it together most days.

While some days were worse than others, it seemed that every moment in Ash’s life ran on autopilot. He wasn’t living. He wasn’t even surviving. He was merely there…existing, like a wilted solitary leaf that had somehow fallen into the ocean, drifting alone until it eventually disintegrated into oblivion. Still, there was a vast difference between the leaf and Ash: the former was alone while the latter was not. Ash had left his imprint on many people’s lives: people who personally knew him and would never forget the boy who fought for his own freedom and successfully forged his own path and then people who knew him as a genius author who never failed to invoke a multitude of emotions from his audience.

It was disheartening to Shorter, that despite having so many people around him who cared, Ash wanted to be left alone and chose loneliness as the more preferable companion. Not that he could blame Ash. After all, how many times can a person be destroyed and still be expected to keep on living? And that too after his soulmate had been cruelly ripped away from him.

While Shorter was lost in his own musings, Ash was having an epiphany…or maybe he was just going insane, because there was a voice reprimanding him in his head and it most definitely _wasn’t his own_.

_What are you doing, Ash? Max is right; this isn’t you._

It was a gentle, familiar voice, one he knew better than his own. Even though he hadn’t heard it in years, he recognized it instantly. Because it was _his_ voice.

Ash braced himself in anticipation for the pain but it never came. He was surprised that the sound of it didn’t hurl him to the ground, didn’t propel him into the deepest corners of his mind where he’d be protected from the emotional torment that was surely to come.

No, there was no pain at all, only realization. It was as if, all this time, he had been drowning in the depths of a murky lake and his head had abruptly surfaced, his mouth gasped for breath.

_Please, Ash. Live. If not for yourself, then for me. You promised, remember?_

You’ve broken promises yourself, Ash wanted to retort, but he restrained himself. He was afraid that if he angered the beautiful voice, it would slip away from him. And right now, it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the surface.

Ash knew that _he_ wasn’t really there telepathically communicating with him. After all, the dead didn’t come back to life and they certainly didn’t have a voice. He assumed that he was having auditory hallucinations as some sort of wish fulfillment, as if his unconscious mind had taken pity on him and had bestowed him with what it thought he wanted. He should’ve felt insulted, but he realized he didn’t actually mind.

Maybe this was _his_ way of keeping _his_ promise even in death. _My soul is always with you_ , _he’d_ vowed.

It was official; Ash was crazy. Though insanity wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. In fact, it was quite pleasant.

Ash could handle it as long as _his_ voice remained. He decided to push his luck and ask the voice a question, see if it answered back and witness what kind of response his mind could conjure up.

He gulped and fumbled around with the words. _Wh-when you wrote me that letter, you knew you were going to die. You anticipated it. But was it an accident or was it intentional on your part? …Did you…kill yourself?_

 _His_ voice was silent for a moment and then it trembled as it exhaled. _What do_ you _think, Ash?_

 _He_ wasn’t going to respond, Ash realized, and the thought made him desperate. _Give me something, anything. Please. I need to know._

_…The truth is, I can’t answer that. I’m sorry._

And then _his_ voice faded away. Ash knew he wouldn’t get an answer no matter how much he pleaded for one. He also knew that this wouldn’t be the last time he would hear _him_. His mind wasn’t that cruel.

Belatedly, he brought himself back to the present. He wondered how long he had been lost in his own head. He wondered if Shorter and Max had noticed the minute change that had just occurred within him.

It was time to make an effort. Ash had promised _him_.

Shorter expected Ash to lose his cool but was surprised when Ash took a deep breath and held it. Slowly, Ash, in his head, counted down from ten until he was certain he was calm and then spoke in a soft voice. “You’re right. The style is not how I usually write. I wanted to try something different and I guess I failed. But Max, if you don’t like what I’ve given you so far, you can’t expect me to hand over a full rough draft by next week. That would be an impossible feat even for me.” He furrowed his brow. If Max didn’t give him an extension, then all hope would be lost.

Max wanted to comfort Ash, pull him into the embrace he desperately needed. Because it was hard for Max to watch Ash like this, like a man who was trapped in a desert, dying of dehydration, and had surrendered to his fate, had given up on searching for an oasis. Max was weak and helpless against Ash and was fearful of how Ash would react to the thoughts racing through his mind.

Instead, Max cracked a smile at Ash’s words. The tense atmosphere shifted around them and reverted back to the teasing quality that usually encompassed their conversations. “You may be a genius with an IQ of 200, Ash Callenreese, but you’re still human, not a miracle worker. One of the biggest perks of owning this publishing company and being my own boss is that I can adjust and manipulate deadlines however I please.” He lowered his chin to his fist and deliberated for a moment. “How about I give you six months to hand in a rough draft? I can’t promise any more time than that.”

Surprise widened both Shorter and Ash’s eyes. “Six months? That’s way too long! I might actually be dead by then,” Shorter groaned at the same time Ash responded with: “Are you serious? Six months? That’s really generous of you, old man.”

Shorter, realizing the gravity of what he had just divulged and imagining the numerous ways this information could be used to his detriment, tried to rectify the situation with a coughing fit. He fooled no one and was promptly ignored.

Max grabbed Ash’s shoulders and pulled him down to eye level, his face grave. “I’m being generous because I have faith in you and your abilities. I know what you’re capable of and that piece of rubbish isn’t even close to hitting your true potential.” Max motioned to the manuscript lying on his desk with his chin. “I’m giving you a second chance and I want you to use this time wisely.”

“Okay, old man. I understand. Six months,” Ash answered, his voice earnest.

“Excellent.” Max clapped his hands together, a wave of excitement crashing through him; he was also a huge fan of Ash’s work.

A blaze newly glinted in Ash’s eyes, one that Max hadn’t witnessed in a long time. It was faded and dim—unless you actively sought it out, you wouldn’t be able to find it—but it was there. A swell of emotion overcame Max as he looked into Ash’s face, at the faint smile that brightened Ash’s features. Max was in danger of hoping but he knew what the reality was: Although Ash might get better, he would never recover, so long as _he_ remained dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fan fic, so I feel pretty nervous about posting it. Please leave me some feedback/constructive criticism. I'd really appreciate it. Enjoy!!


	2. Chapter 2

**October 2018**

“You have got to stop drinking your old man drinks! You’re only twenty-two, for cryin’ out loud!” Sing snatched Yut-Lung’s Starbucks cup from him. “You also need to get over your Starbucks obsession. There are so many other—read: _better_ —places you can get your coffee.”

Yut-Lung’s eyes widened as he made a failed attempt to reach for his cup. “Ah, leave me alone, Sing! And give it back! There’s nothing wrong with drinking black coffee without sugar. It’s supposed to have health benefits.” He sniffed.

“The key words being ‘supposed to.’” Sing snorted and rolled his eyes but nonetheless handed the cup back to Yut-Lung.

The cool autumnal air flowed around them, rustling the dead leaves on the ground and rumpling the pages of the book in Yut-Lung’s lap. Shining in the western sky, just above the horizon, the sun radiated a comfortable warmth. The men sat under the shade of a sycamore tree in a secluded area of Central Park. Yut-Lung sighed and rested his head back against the tree, watching as a father hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders and spun her around, eliciting peals of joy from the young girl’s mouth.

“Whatcha reading?” Sing leaned over Yut-Lung’s shoulder and glanced at the book’s cover. “ _Mad as a Hatter, Dry as a Bone_? Is it any good? Who’s it by? What’s it about?”

Yut-Lung tore his eyes away from the father-daughter duo and turned over his book, focusing on the front cover. The image was of a lone weatherworn chair sitting in the center of a dark and dilapidated room. Placed atop the chair was a silver pocket watch. Yut-Lung brought the cover closer to his face and noticed that a faint stream of light cascaded down towards the chair. He couldn’t find the source of the light, not even when he turned the book over to the back cover where the image continued into nothingness.

“It’s about—it’s about… Hmmm…” How did he explain?

“It’s about a man’s isolation from reality. He refuses to leave the darkest crevices of his mind despite having the ability to move on. It’s an excellent story, one of my favorites written by Chris Winston,” answered a voice located directly on the opposite side of the tree from where Yut-Lung and Sing were sitting.

Sing jerked back, startled. “Holy shit! You scared me!” He peered around to the other side of the tree and watched as a man, who appeared much younger than his twenty-six years, skimmed a pencil across his sketchbook. A smile threatened the edges of the man’s mouth and a camera hung from a strap around his neck. “Have you been there the whole time, Eiji?”

Eiji chuckled, his quiet voice easygoing, and both Sing and Yut-Lung found themselves beaming in response. “I’ve been here keeping Yut-Lung company. Though I don’t think I’ve been doing a good job of it.”

“You’ve been doing just fine, Eiji.” Yut-Lung’s kind words didn’t match his severe tone. “I’m trying to read this book—which, you’re right, is phenomenal by the way—and you haven’t interrupted me even once, unlike _this one_ right here.” He waved his arm haphazardly in Sing’s direction.

Sing ignored Yut-Lung and surrendered his full attention to Eiji. “You’re either snapping at everything with your camera or you’re drawing in that sketchbook. But we’ve never actually gotten the chance to see your photos or illustrations. As the world’s most awesomest housemates, I think we’ve earned the right to—”

_Wrong_ , Yut-Lung thought. _I’ve actually seen Eiji’s drawings, although I don’t think he meant for that to happen. I don’t even think he knows that I know what he’s been hiding._

Before Sing could finish his statement, Eiji was holding the sketchbook open in front of his face, allowing him the rarest of glances at the sketches: a realistic portrayal of a banana and a fish. He was awed by the immaculate detail Eiji had placed in drawing such mundane objects. Beyond that, however, Sing’s eyes widened at the sentimentality and care Eiji had bestowed with each stroke of his pencil, as if the images themselves weren’t merely a banana and a fish, as if they represented something significant, a significance that was only known to Eiji.

Flushing, Sing turned his head away. He felt as if he had intruded on Eiji’s most private of thoughts. “Y-You’re really good, Eiji. Thanks for sharing. I can’t even imagine what your photos’ll be like.”

Eiji smiled again. “Thanks, Sing. It means a lot.” He opened his satchel, pushed the sketchbook inside, and deposited the pencil behind his right ear. “Did you want to see some of my photographs as well?”

Sing shook his head, aware that Eiji’s words were out of sheer courtesy and that he didn’t actually intend to share them, not unless he was forced to. “Nah, maybe another time.”

Sipping his drink, Yut-Lung watched Sing and Eiji’s exchange. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt relieved that Eiji hadn’t shared the _other_ drawings in the book, the ones he knew were meant for Eiji’s eyes and Eiji’s eyes only. He felt guilty for even knowing what was inside, but he reasoned that it wasn’t completely his fault.

* * *

It had all been happenstance:

****

**_August 2018_ **

_Sing and Eiji had gone to the nearest grocery store to grab dinner ingredients. In the meantime, Yut-Lung was enjoying a hot shower, having exhausted himself after a long day of classes. When he entered the living room, the others were still out and the sketchbook lay open on the leather sofa._ Property of Eiji Okumura _, the front page read. With no one to see him or stop him, an intense curiosity burned through him and he wasn’t able to resist. In the end, he sat for what felt like hours and combed through the pages slowly, taking in every detail of every drawing. Eiji’s talent was evident; each line flowed from an expert hand._

_The content, however, left Yut-Lung baffled because the majority of the sketches were unfinished. At first, he thought that Eiji had lost interest in whatever he’d been drawing at the time and had moved on to a new idea. But as he leafed through the pages, he noticed that many of the incomplete images repeated themselves, as though Eiji were trying to translate a specific memory onto paper but was frustrated by his imperfect recall and didn’t feel that his illustrations were doing the memory any justice. Whatever Eiji was drawing was very valuable to him and he was absolutely unwilling to let it go._

_Yut-Lung realized that he was witnessing the very essence of Eiji Okumura’s construct. He also gathered that Eiji was hurt, very hurt, to the point that he was shocked Eiji could even muster up a genuine smile. But he did. Because he was strong. The smiles and laughter he proffered to the people around him were always real. His every emotion was real. But he never once sought comfort from anyone, let alone Yut-Lung and Sing. On the rare occasion he was upset, he was almost cold in his interactions and preferred to suffer in solitude, making it abundantly clear that their sympathy was unwelcome. Even though Yut-Lung knew Eiji well, he was able to garner Eiji’s unhappiness from his sketches. He could only imagine the horrors that were sealed in Eiji’s photos._

What happened to you, Eiji? _Yut-Lung wondered._

* * *

“Ready to get outta here?” Sing asked, yanking Yut-Lung out of his haze.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He looked up to find Sing leaning over him with hands on bent knees and Eiji standing a few yards away, patiently waiting for them. He quickly stuffed his book into his backpack, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and stood, stretching his arms over his head and restraining a yawn. “I think I need a nap.”

“Tell me about it,” Sing agreed as the three of them meandered down a grassy slope and headed back to the park’s entrance. “I feel like I could sleep for a year and still feel bushed afterwards. I can’t believe that in grade school, I woke up in time for 8 AM classes and now I’m a zombie before 10 AM. I must’ve had some kind of super power back then or I’m just getting old.”

Yut-Lung plastered an innocent smile on his face. “Since you’re getting so _old_ , maybe you should consider consuming some—what did you call them?—‘old man drinks’ like coffee.”

Sing blanched and swung his fist in Yut-Lung’s direction. Yut-Lung ducked in time and grabbed Sing’s neck in a light chokehold.

Eiji watched their banter and shook his head. Quietly, he said, “Actually, the old tend to get up bright and early so they can play early morning croquet. You guys, believe it or not, are acting your age: like any other millennial.”

Sing and Yut-Lung’s mouths dropped open.

“E-Eiji, did you really just make a dig?” Sing only poorly masked his surprise.

“Actually, he made _two_ digs.” Yut-Lung ran his fingers through his long ponytail and flipped it over his shoulder, attempting to conceal his delight and failing.

Eiji forced a snicker and strode ahead of them. For the majority of the walk back to their house, Sing and Yut-Lung amiably squabbled back and forth about everything and nothing, while Eiji responded appropriately to their antics, with a laugh here and a shake of a head there. It was just like any other day.

Eiji was very fond of Sing and Yut-Lung. He even considered them to be some of his closest friends in New York City. If not for their presence in his life, he was sure the loneliness would have swallowed him whole by now.

* * *

**_September 2017_ **

_Eiji first met them a year ago, the day he had been discharged from the hospital. It had been his third hospitalization in four months and he was sick and tired of the uncomfortable brightness of the fluorescent lights, the relentless beeping of monitors, the physicians’ phony empathy, the IV needle jabbing his AC. So, to keep his restless and frustrated thoughts at bay, he felt it necessary to find a distraction, and what better way than doing something spontaneous? He subsequently found himself…standing at the front entrance of the New York Public Library. He grimaced at his own banality; the New York Public Library of all places? Couldn’t he have chosen a place that was a bit more imaginative and a bit less touristy?_

_But as he entered the building, he realized he was probably in one of the city’s most creative hotspots. After all, the library housed eons worth of human history, philosophy, art, culture, and literature. He wandered through the stacks, searching for nothing in particular, when he caught sight of a small row of books that lured him in like a magnet. They had all been written by a certain ‘Chris Winston.’ With suddenly trembling hands—he couldn’t tell if they were shaking from trepidation or anticipation or a combination of both—he pulled out the first book in the row, sat down right in the middle of the aisle, and began reading._

_He was enraptured by the author’s every word and felt…pride—there was no other word for it—at his clever use of language, his impressive ability to tangle and detangle abstract concepts, and his capacity to evoke raw emotion from his audience._

_Eventually, Eiji realized he was in other people’s way, so he grabbed the books and took them to the front counter for checkout._

_A young African American boy was manning the checkout station, listening to music on his phone through a pair of earphones and sorting out due date cards. When he noticed Eiji shuffling up to the counter, he pulled out his ear buds and grinned. “Haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?”_

_Eiji dropped the three books onto the countertop. The boy—Skip, according to his nametag—was obviously making small talk, but the question stopped Eiji short. He very well couldn’t answer with,_ Hmmm… I’m not sure if I would be considered new or not. To be honest, it’s a long and complicated story. My family and I moved here from Japan when I was sixteen, but my parents and younger sister returned to our home in Izumo after a couple of years. Under the supervision and guidance of a family friend, they allowed me to stay back and finish my college education. After I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in photojournalism—because I failed at being a pole-vaulter—I took on a project in the Middle East. But I don’t think it worked out very well for me considering ever since I returned to the States, I’ve been hospitalized several times, and things just aren’t like how I remembered them to be. So you see, I’m new, in a way.

_Yes, that, as a conversation starter, would definitely go over well with Skip. Not to mention the fact that he sounded like an interviewee responding to questions posed by his potential employer. Instead, Eiji answered, “I’m originally from Japan but I’ve lived in NYC for years. I’ve just never gotten out much or been to this library before. At least, I don’t remember coming here before… So can you help me procure a library card?”_

_Skip nodded his head, enthusiastic, and pulled out a paper form from underneath the countertop. As Eiji filled it out, he made casual conversation with Skip, sharing a few details—that were acceptable for a first encounter—about his own life while learning a few things about Skip himself: Skip was a fifteen-year-old orphan who was a library student volunteer. He had lived in a residential group home before he entered the foster care system a few months back and was currently living with a family that treated him well. When Eiji heard the name of the group home, he was surprised; he’d volunteered there during his final two years of college._

_“I was only at the home for a few months, so I’m not surprised you missed me.” Skip printed out Eiji’s new library card and handed it to him. “Ei-ji Ok-u-mu-ra, huh? It’s good to have met you.”_

_“Likewise, Skip.”_

_While Skip was scanning the barcodes on Eiji’s books and confirming that the correct due date card was in its respective book’s pocket, he skimmed over the book titles. “A fan of Chris Winston, I see.” There was a strange glint in Skip’s eyes, one that Eiji didn’t understand; it looked like he was enjoying a private joke._

_A faint blush stained Eiji’s cheeks. “I just became a fan today actually,” he replied, honesty coloring his words._

_“Well, I’m too young to read his books but I hear they’re fantastic. So enjoy them for me, will ya?”_

_Again, an unexplainable wave of pride engulfed Eiji, as if a compliment meant for Chris Winston was the equivalent to praising Eiji himself. He couldn’t pinpoint why._

_Skip organized the books on top of each other and then stuck them inside a paper bag. “Make sure you turn them in or renew them before the due date. Otherwise, you’ll have to pay a fine and your rep will be tarnished forever…”He snickered. “…Kidding. And don’t forget to write your name on the due date cards.”_

_“Got it,” Eiji affirmed._

_A loud quarrel erupted behind them, forcing Eiji to turn around and seek out the source of the commotion: two Asian men, one with long black hair pulled into a half ponytail, a backpack draped over one shoulder and a Starbucks cup in hand, and another who was taller with short spiky black hair and was holding onto a few weathered notebooks. They were debating about…anime?_

_“Shougo Makishima is definitely a villain. He lacks any sort of humanity or empathy towards human life. He’s obsessed with cruelty and killing,” the taller one argued._

_The longhaired one shook his head, his hand tightening its grip around the cup. “No, he’s not. He’s an anti-hero. He’s not the one who lacks humanity; it’s his cold and dystopian society that does. People are forced to be ‘happy’ and everyone pretends that concepts like stress and anxiety and depression don’t exist. Of course he’s interested in cruelty—it’s an innate part of human nature but it’s been almost eradicated in his very abnormal world. He’s so unhappy with the mechanical nature of his society that it’s only natural he pursues the ugliest parts of humanity—they’re the only things left that haven’t been tainted by the Sybil System.”_

_“You sound like you’ve written a character analysis on Makishima before.” The taller man laughed good-naturedly. “I can’t believe we’re even arguing about this. I’m not saying you’re wrong or that Makishima is a black and white character. Because he’s not. He’s complic—”_

_“Shhh! The both of you need to be quiet!” Skip whisper-yelled._

_Simultaneously, the two men slapped their hands over each other’s mouths and glanced around at the annoyed faces of the nearby library occupants. “Sorry,” they mouthed, sheepish._

_And then, the taller man was zeroing in on Eiji. “Hey, man. I heard you say you were from Japan. So whose opinion do you agree with? Mine or his?” He nudged the longhaired man with his shoulder._

_Eiji restrained his mirth. What a conclusion to come to. His eyes wavered between the two of them as they watched him, their expressions curious but guarded. “You’re assuming I’ve seen_ Psycho-Pass _because I’m Japanese—”_

_“Well, yeah. A Japanese who doesn’t watch anime or read manga is like an American who doesn’t like hamburgers or doesn’t know the YMCA dance.” The taller man’s tone made it seem like that was the most obvious fact in the entire world._

_Before his brain could catch up to his mouth, Eiji was saying, “I actually know an American who hates hamburgers.” Where had_ that _come from? He clambered to return to the topic at hand and ignored the confused looks on the men’s faces. With how perplexed he himself felt at his statement, he wasn’t sure he could offer them a sound explanation. “A-Anyway, you’d be right; I have watched_ Psycho-Pass _. And if I had to agree with either one of your opinions, I would choose his.”_

_The longhaired man pumped his fist. “Score one for me!”_

_“Not so fast, Yut-Lung,” Skip interrupted. “I’m gonna have to take Sing’s side on this one.”_

_Eiji raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “You’re too young to read Winston’s books but you’re old enough to watch_ Psycho-Pass _?”_

_Feeling self-conscious, Skip rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Well, it’s not that I’m too young. I just don’t read them out of respect…’cause…you know…Chris Winston…” He trailed off._

_Eiji and the others had no idea what Skip meant but they recognized that Skip’s words weren’t intended to be understood._

_“We’ve been having such a deep and meaningful conversation this whole time and we haven’t even introduced ourselves to you. I’m Soo-Ling Sing—but I prefer to go by Sing—and this hotheaded punk right here”—Sing wrapped his arm around the longhaired man’s neck and pulled him tight across his side—“is Yut-Lung Lee, the youngest son of the famed Lee clan and my BFF. We’re both undergrads at CUNY. I’m a freshman and he’s a junior.”_

The Lee clan, one of the most influential Asian industrialist families in the country _, Eiji realized._

_“Don’t introduce me like that, Sing! You make me sound so pretentious!” Yut-Lung protested. “I apologize on behalf of Sing. You’ll have to learn to ignore him like I do.”_

_Oh, the irony. Sing palmed his face and Eiji looked amused. “I’m Eiji Okumura, a photojournalist.”_

_“Well, nice to meet you, photojournalist Eiji Okumura!” Sing winked while Yut-Lung huffed._

* * *

After Eiji’s fateful first encounter with Skip, Sing, and Yut-Lung, he saw them often in the library. Eventually, they exchanged numbers and began hanging out. He met Sing and Yut-Lung several times a week. Sometimes, the three relaxed at a café to work on homework and projects. Other times, they visited Skip at the library.

While being in the presence of Sing and Yut-Lung, Eiji learned to control the overwhelming bouts of solitude that coiled about him as if aiming to suffocate. Therefore, when Sing and Yut-Lung transferred out of the university dorms to move into a modest three bedroom house—gifted by Yut-Lung’s eldest brother—and they offered Eiji one of the rooms, he accepted without hesitation. He needed the distraction greatly. He found that, after having bustled through all of Chris Winston’s published books, the memories which lingered just below the surface of his thoughts and haunted the pages of his sketchbook, threatened to materialize, now more than ever, but always—frustratingly—remained at an asymptotic distance, never emerging. The stories in the books reminded him of his own life, as if the author had reached into him and seized his secrets, laying them bare for all the world to witness.

He both loved and loathed Winston’s books. They simultaneously healed and broke him. But above all else, they compelled him to confront the truth: that there was something not quite right about himself, as though he himself were a puzzle with missing pieces.

Every night, after work, Eiji would sit at his desk, pencil in hand, and draw, trying to uncover the lost puzzle pieces in the images he constructed. Almost always, the depictions were of a young man with straight blond hair reaching the base of his neck. His jade eyes held too much knowledge, too much world-weariness, but burst with a vivaciousness and fierceness Eiji hadn’t anticipated.

In some of the drawings, the man wore a simple white t-shirt, distressed jeans, and red converse sneakers. He stood in the middle of a field, endless stretches of rye surrounding him, and stared, captivated, into the distance at another man, as though surprised he was in Paradise when he’d expected otherwise. In other drawings, he sat on a bedroom floor, sporting a loose fitting light blue oxford shirt with the sleeves shoved back to his wrists and those same distressed pair of jeans. He leaned his head against a wooden bedframe, one knee pulled close to his chest with his hands wrapped around it while he patiently watched someone out of sight, his eyes hooded in reverence.

The illustrations, while detailed, weren’t enough, weren’t _perfect_. Eiji could vaguely imagine the blond-haired man in his head but the rendition on paper was never quite right. And for some reason, it agitated him.

Eiji wondered why his accuracy was amiss. Were these images dreams? Were they his memories? If they were dreams, was the blond-haired man real? Did the man navigate life carrying a huge burden on his shoulders? Or was he dead, the fight having left him? This second thought, though idle, was unbearable, and Eiji vowed not to consider it again. Because even if he didn’t know this man, even if he never encountered this man once in his life, even if the man was mere fantasy, he had to believe that wherever the man was, he existed in that world.

But if the man were an entity of Eiji’s own life, of his own memories, then he had a niggling suspicion that he was forgetting something very, very vital. While the average human mind was a sieve, he was afraid that his own mind was far more vulnerable—a large gaping hole, one that he had inadvertently created, maybe during his stint in the Middle East—he wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, it appeared to be leaking some fundamental events from his life, leaving him to inquire who Eiji Okumura really was.

Still, if this blond-haired man had been a significant part of his life, why would he forget? _How_ could he forget? There were many a night he lay awake in bed, while his housemates pulled school-related all-nighters, thinking to himself: _Who are you? Why are you so important to me? Even if I don’t remember you, even if I’ve never met you, why can’t I let you go?_

* * *

Yut-Lung sat in front of his vanity mirror, gliding a comb through the thick strands of his long hair. It was late and he was drained after studying for his political science exam. He wanted to think of nothing, with thoughts of school and his brothers and life in general voided from his mind. He hoped to sleep dreamlessly and not have a care in the world. Unfortunately, it was impossible.

He could hear Eiji and Sing downstairs, quietly chatting while indulging in a late night snack. He wanted to join them but sleep tugged at his eyelids. As he placed his comb on the vanity, his phone began vibrating with a call. He rolled his eyes; only one person would call him at this hour.

“What services can I assist you with today, Wang-Lung?” Yut-Lung asked, his voice smooth and open but the undercurrent of it metallic.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the other side of the line. “I’m your eldest brother and yet you have the audacity to speak to me like that. I would ask you to know your place but I have more imperative things to discuss with you tonight. So I highly suggest that you not test me with that smartass mouth of yours.”

Yut-Lung resisted the urge to hang up on Wang-Lung. Nothing good ever came from these kinds of conversations. He dropped the pretense of pleasantry and allowed his distaste to show through. “Whatever you say. It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

Wang-Lung laughed again, this time more amicably. “There’s the Yut-Lung I know. I knew you’d understand.”

Yut-Lung didn’t answer, just tapped his fingers in a staccato rhythm against the wood of the vanity as Wang-Lung tested his patience.

“Not in much of a mood tonight, are we?” Amusement marked Wang-Lung’s words. “Well, in that case, let’s get down to business. I hear you’re friends with a certain Eiji Okumura…”


	3. Chapter 3

**October 2018**

“Hey, boss?”

Ash didn’t look up from his newspaper and took a sip of hot tea from his mug.

Bones took Ash’s silence as permission to continue. “You think I can take that sweet Maserati of yours for a spin sometime?”

The incessant jingling of the bell above the café’s door, signaling the arrival of a customer, had finally stopped. The chilly air from outside no longer filtered into the warm confines of the small shop. It was 10 AM and the morning rush had slowed its pace. Only a few customers dawdled now. Some drank their ostentatious beverages and browsed their phones. Others had their laptops open and were studying or pretending to study. The baristas stood behind the counter, quietly speaking amongst themselves as they wiped away the chaos of spilled coffee grounds, milk, whipped cream, pastry crumbs, and the like.

Ash himself had arrived an hour earlier to people-watch in the hopes of acquiring some inspiration for his story. But the task had become cumbersome—the customers were too predictable—and he, instead, found himself far more interested in the newspaper that lay abandoned on the table.

“Do whatever you want. Just give me a heads up first,” Ash answered, looking over the top of the newspaper at Bones’s ecstatic expression.

“Thanks a lot, boss!” Bones vibrated in his seat.

“I’m comin’ along too… That is, i-if boss’ll let me,” Kong piped up, gulping down the last of his macha frappuccino and using his jacket sleeve to clear the perspiration from his cup which had dribbled onto the table.

Ash sighed and lowered his newspaper, Bones and Kong’s persistent chattering tearing his attention away from the compelling article illustrating the founding of NATO and the combined military spending of its members. He had no other alternative than to accept the fact that with Bones and Kong around, he wouldn’t be able to read his articles in peace. “It doesn’t matter to me. It’s up to you guys to decide what you want to do with it. Wreck it for all I care.”

“You really mean th—”

A low familiar voice cleared its throat above Ash’s head and he looked up to see Blanca’s warm eyes peering down at him. Blanca was the other reason why he had awoken at an ungodly 8:30 AM to come to this café. The day before, Blanca had texted him to ask if they could get together “to talk.” In his message, he hadn’t specified exactly what topic of discussion he wanted to broach but Ash had his suspicions.

He chose to ignore the text, at first, because he didn’t have any time to waste hanging out with others in coffee shops. After all, he had a deadline to meet and he was nowhere near close to reaching his targeted goal in the progression of his story that he had hoped to achieve by this time. But it wasn’t long before his guilty conscience was badgering him to accept Blanca’s request and to cut the nonsense: _You promised_ him _you would live, remember? You need to change, Ash. You can do this. It’s only Blanca. You can talk to him. He’ll listen. Stop chickening out._

Ash had consequently typed out a short, curt message to Blanca, acquiescing, partly because he knew his conscience was right and partly because he felt horrendous at evading a kind man who was trying to look out for him. He was tired of overthinking things, felt drained from trying to find the pathways leading to the least amount of misery. Because, if he were being honest, there were none. The roads he yearned for didn’t exist anymore; they had all been destroyed the moment _he_ had died. So he succumbed and did what he wanted, allowing the chips to fall where they may. Consequences be damned.

As he watched Blanca watch him, he was beginning to regret yesterday’s decisions now. A palpable tension reverberated off the café walls as they stared at one another in silence. Bones and Kong shifted their gazes between Ash and Blanca. The awkwardness was stifling in the room.

“Well,” Bones interrupted their staredown, “we’ll catch you later, boss. Stop by the shop sometime and say hi. Alex won’t own up to it but he’s really missin’ ya, said it’s been ages since he last saw you.” He nudged Kong’s shoulder with his own and they stood, gathering their empty cups and tossing them in a garbage bin.

Ash nodded, his eyes following them as they strode to the front door. He raised his hand in a wave and was rewarded with two grins. When they were out the door and cursing the biting wind and he could no longer see them, he turned back to Blanca who had clumsily situated himself in the chair that Bones had vacated seconds before. The contrast between him and the seat’s former occupant left Ash snickering.

“This—seat—is—too—small—” Blanca complained as he turned this way and that, trying to find a position that was comfortable and didn’t make him look like a polar bear sitting on a toadstool.

Ash’s snickering had evolved into full-blown laughter. “Don’t blame the chair. This one’s all on you, Blanca.”

“Laugh it up, laugh it up.” Blanca huffed but it was halfhearted. He observed Ash’s glee with rapt attention, his own smile threatening to split across his face. “I didn’t mean to run Bones and Kong off. If I’m interrupting…”

“No, it’s fine. They had to get back to the shop anyway.”

“Hmmm… I see.”

A silence, teetering between being comfortable and uncomfortable, engulfed them, allowing Ash the chance to mentally prepare for what was to come next. When it came to writing, Ash was an expert. His thoughts flew unbidden from his mind and translated themselves eloquently onto paper. But with Blanca there, Ash scrambled and stuttered, unsure of what to say and how to initiate their conversation. Blanca, seeing the tautness in Ash’s shoulders and sensing his unease, stood. Ash glanced up at him questioningly.

“There’s a small park across the street. How about we head there? The fresh air will give us a chance to cool our heads.”

Ash’s shoulders relaxed. “I can go along with that.” He pitched his half full cup in the trash, pulled on his coat and scarf, and headed to the front door where Blanca was already waiting for him.

“Have a great day!” one of the baristas called after them as they walked out.

“Thanks,” Ash murmured, realizing belatedly that his voice had been too soft for the barista to catch.

The wind was brisk as it swirled around them, forcing Ash to bury his face in his scarf and shove his ungloved hands into his coat pockets. Browned, brittle leaves crumpled under their feet as they entered the park. Blanca didn’t appear to mind the chill and took slowed, unhurried steps towards a vacant bench. As he sat down, he motioned for Ash to do the same but Ash shook his head and walked around to the other side of the bench, Blanca’s scrutiny following him.

He found a handheld-sized rock lying on the ground and focused his attention on its jagged edges and muddied creases. He bent down to pick it up, thought better of it, and then kicked it forcefully against a tree trunk. Blanca blanched at the deafening blow as Ash stared at the small dent the rock had carved into the wood, a faraway look in his eyes.

“You know, that tree is public property. And it did nothing to deserve your wrath,” Blanca chided mildly.

Ash chose not to acknowledge Blanca’s reproach. Instead, he placed one hand on the bench’s backrest and leapt over it, landing smoothly on the seat. He waited for Blanca to start.

“Sorry,” Blanca apologized. He stared at his hands, linked and unlinked his fingers. “I know it’s cold out here but I wanted to talk in a more private area, away from prying eyes.”

“And eavesdropping ears,” Ash added.

“Right…” Blanca looked Ash in the eye. “To be honest, I don’t know where to even begin. I suppose there’s no right way to go about this. So why don’t we just take it from the top?”

“The top?”

“Yes. Tell me how you’ve been doing,” Blanca urged gently.

Ash looked away from Blanca’s penetrating gaze and glowered at his hands, which were folded in his lap. “I’m all right, I guess. In some ways, I’m better and in other ways, I’m…the same…worse… I don’t really know.”

“Are you…still going to therapy?” Blanca asked, hesitant.

Ash raised his head and sucked in air through his teeth. He felt unbelievably small even though he knew he had no reason to be. “Yes. I’ve been going every two weeks for the past four years.” He laughed once, his voice bitter. “I haven’t missed a single session.”

“You know it doesn’t make you weak for seeking help, right? If anything, it makes you very strong.” He paused and sighed. “Even if it doesn’t matter, just know that…I-I’m really proud of you.”

Ash acted as if he hadn’t heard Blanca and continued. Now that he’d said the words, the floodgates had opened and he had to let them out. “At first, I thought I could suppress everything that had happened with…Golzine, pretend as if my life was fine and dandy, act like I was _normal_ ”—he spat the word—“but I couldn’t escape the nightmares. They threw reality in my face.”

* * *

He could see it before his very eyes, his wretched childhood:

_Summer 2002 to Summer 2008_

_Eight-year-old Aslan Jade Callenreese hid behind the agency social worker, his face streaked with endless tears as he was introduced to his new foster father, a man named Dino Golzine. Although Golzine’s smile appeared outwardly kind, there was an austerity behind it that Ash didn’t trust._

_“It’s nice to meet you, Ash. I’m your Papa Dino.”_

_Golzine took him to a large mansion and told him to call it his new “home.” But Ash was reluctant, wary. He noticed that the mansion acted as a base of some sort for five other men who wore shiny pointy shoes and dressed in black and white suits and always carried guns. Whenever he felt their eyes on him, he had the urge to take a shower and scrub the residual grime off his skin that their gazes left behind. Still, he was thankful they never spoke to him and left him to his own devices._

_For the most part, Golzine allowed him freedom in the mansion. However, he was forbidden from entering certain areas and leaving the mansion grounds. Ash spent the majority of his time in his room, reading, studying, ignoring the roar of gunshots and the subsequent red stains on the walls that somehow disappeared the following day. If he had to live in a Hell plagued by danger and death, then he would do whatever it took to dissociate himself from it._

_But it all changed one day when he was ten-years-old. As he was walking to the dining room for lunch, he collided with a boy who seemed to be a few years older than him. The boy was covered in bloodied wounds, sweat, and tears and appeared to have been running from someone. The boy’s voice made no sound as he repeated, “Please. Please. Help me.”_

_Ash didn’t think; his body acted of its own accord. He grabbed the boy’s sweaty hand and led him into his bedroom, fastening the deadbolt. He handed the boy some clothes, offered him his bathroom, and told him to keep the door locked until he passed a paper message through the crack under the door announcing his return. The boy assented and Ash went back to the dining room where he snuck out some food against his better judgment, praying that Golzine nor his men noticed his odd behavior._

_When Ash returned, the boy was freshly showered and it appeared that he had attempted to clean and dress his wounds as best he could. His tears had stopped but his eyes were still swollen and red-rimmed. Ash tried not to notice that the clothes were too big on him. Instead, Ash handed him the plastic plate containing lasagna and apologized for not being able to bring more food. But the boy didn’t mind; he grinned and accepted Ash’s offering. Ash watched, his own eyes filled with tears, as the boy ravenously devoured the food._

_A million questions raced through Ash’s mind but he restrained himself from asking the boy a single one. He wanted to call the cops, alert a neighbor, do_ something _to help this boy but he knew his attempts would be in vain. After all, he was only ten and the whole mansion was under surveillance. As far as he knew, there was no way to escape. He was scared of what the morning would bring, wondered how long he could keep this boy hidden. Surely, Golzine and his men were already searching for him? And what would happen to the boy when he was found? What would happen to Ash? The thoughts churned endlessly in his mind, sickened him._

_For the rest of the day, Ash and the boy remained silent, so as not to raise suspicion. They both sat on Ash’s bed and read short stories until it was bedtime, feigning as if everything would be fine come morning._

_A few hours after midnight, an earsplitting crash ripped through the air, jolting Ash and the boy from their restless sleep. Terror so profound that Ash couldn’t contain his urine wracked through his body at the sight before him: The door had been busted open and a bloodthirsty Golzine, accompanied by the pig-like man, Marvin, strode into the room._

_Golzine grabbed Ash by his shirt and hurled him against a wall. Ash slid to the floor, an intense searing pain overcoming him from head to toe. He struggled to stay conscious and watched helplessly as Marvin dragged the boy out of the bed and pinned him to the floor with his shoe._

_“I fucking told you not to run. I told you to stay in the cage with the rest of ’em,” Marvin hissed into the boy’s face. “Now look at what you’ve done. I’m gonna have to waste perfectly good bullets on a piece of shit like you.”_

_The boy didn’t struggle. He didn’t even look shaken. His face was devoid of all emotion, like he were the living dead, like he’d accepted his brutal fate. He turned to Ash and mouthed a ‘thank you’ before Marvin’s bullets tore through him._

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, _Ash counted._

_The boy’s body twitched for a few seconds and then lay still and statue-like. Ash didn’t get the chance to mourn his death, because immediately afterwards, Golzine and Marvin turned towards Ash and leered down at him. There was not a shred of doubt in his mind that he was looking into the faces of Satan’s incarnations._

_“Papa, we should’ve just stuck Ash in a cage from the start. Then this shit wouldn’t have fucking happened,” Marvin spat. “But you’ve got a soft spot for him, don’t you? I wonder… Is it the blond hair or the pretty face?”_

_“Think nothing of it,” Golzine replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “Whatever you do, just make sure not to kill him.”_

_Marvin fixated his attention on Ash’s quaking figure and cackled. “You were doing so well, Ash. What happened, huh?” he sneered, pulling the leather belt from his pants and raising it high above his head. “How about we teach you a little lesson about minding your own fucking business?”_

_That was when the beatings started._

_After that incident, Ash lost his innocence and freedom, spending the next few years barricaded in his room. During the day, Golzine and his men left him alone. But at night, the terror seized him like a noose constricted around his neck. Golzine would unlock his door, slither inside, and then violate him for what felt like hours. When he wasn’t in town, he’d send Marvin or one of his four other men to take his place. Sometimes, they were even worse than Golzine._

_At first, Ash trembled and wept into the tarnished sheets, not yet having realized that fear and tears fueled rather than quenched Golzine’s cruelty. He always tried to fight back despite his weaknesses. He prayed to God, asking for His forgiveness for whatever sin he’d committed that had landed him his fate and begged for a second chance. When God didn’t answer his pleas, he asked Him to take his life instead. He didn’t want to die and he didn’t seek out death. But he wanted to be with his older brother, Griffin, the only person who had ever cared for him and treated him like he was worth it._

_God didn’t respond to that request either._

_It wasn’t long before he lost his hope. While the men continued their brutality, he had other things on his mind. He stopped eating his one meal a day as his body could no longer handle it, could no longer keep anything down, the too-strong poison invading him._

_For some unfathomable reason, Golzine couldn’t tolerate watching Ash starve. Thus, he called in a physician, a man named Dr. Meredith, who brought along his PA, Mr. Lobo. Mr. Lobo visited him weekly—sometimes with Dr. Meredith and other times alone—and looked at him with warmth in his eyes and spoke to him in a soft and teasing voice. But Ash was hesitant to trust a man whose knowledge of medicine left much to be desired. Mr. Lobo was less of a physician assistant and more of a storyteller. The majority of his tales were about a young soldier who had been a member of his platoon in the Iraq War and preferred poetry and letter writing over violence and military tactics. Above all, though, the soldier’s favorite pastime was talking about his younger brother whom he cherished more than life itself. His one wish, once he’d finished serving and returned to the States, was to create a home with his brother. It was a dream he never got to fulfill._

_Mr. Lobo’s stories reminded Ash of someone but he was too weary to remember whom. And in any case, it didn’t matter._

_On the afternoon of Ash’s fourteenth birthday, Golzine gifted him with adoption papers. He’d been lying in bed—too weak to stand—as Dr. Meredith monitored his pulse, face contorted in concern. The moment Mr. Lobo saw the papers, the color drained from his face but a fire burned in his eyes. Ash noticed his strange reaction but didn’t comment._

_As Golzine was leaving his room after delivering the horrific news, a commotion erupted downstairs. Ash could hear the distinct sounds of gunshots and toppling furniture._

_One of Golzine’s men scurried into the room, his shoulder covered in blood and his voice panicked. “Papa, papa! We’ve been found out! Marvin’s been shot! He’s dead!”_

_Before Golzine could respond, two men, each aiming a gun at Golzine’s head, were already inside the room. They called themselves Detective Dickinson and Detective Jenkins._

_“There’s no point in resisting, Golzine. We’ve already caught you redhanded. The children have been freed from the cages and you’re under arrest for human trafficking.” Detective Dickinson turned to look at Mr. Lobo who had pulled Ash tight to his chest. “Good work, Max. You’ve given us all the evidence we need to take in the bastard.”_

_Both Ash and Golzine looked at the man named Max, their expressions frantic. But Max’s gaze only lingered on Ash’s face, an anguished smile spreading across his features. Golzine’s hand went to the holster at his waist and yanked out a gun. The detectives responded instantly, their guns pulling the trigger on Golzine as Golzine turned his own gun on himself._

_The four men stood frozen, uncomprehending, as Golzine collapsed to the ground. Ash furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of the scene before him, his mind unable to wrap around the fact that Golzine was dead._

_They barely had any time to pull themselves together before more chaos broke out downstairs. Someone yelled, “They’re down! Detectives, all of Golzine’s men shot themselves!”_

_It was too much for Ash to handle. He tried to make sense of what this all meant but his body and mind were exhausted beyond belief. So he gave up and let the fatigue consume him._

_However, before he could completely succumb to sleep, he heard Max’s kind voice whisper in his ear, “You’re free now, Ash. You’re safe. Happy birthday.”_

* * *

“Ash? Ash?” Blanca’s anxious voice shook Ash from his stupor.

“Huh? Sorry,” he murmured and then inhaled slowly, trying to keep the quiver from leaking out of his voice. “I was just caught up in the memories. For the most part, they don’t bother me as much as they used to.”

“I would consider that to be progress, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess…”

Blanca shifted so that he could get a better view of Ash’s face. His hand hovered over Ash’s shoulder, uncertain, and then dropped onto the bench. “What are you thinking, Ash?”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I would’ve done if Max hadn’t been there. He helped and protected me when I had no one else. I’ve gotta hand it to Griff for befriending a guy like him.”

Blanca repressed his laughter. “I’ll be sure to inform Max of your praise the next time we meet.”

“What was that?” Ash deadpanned, turning to face Blanca in order to overwhelm him with his ire. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“I said, ‘Don’t let Max hear you say that. He doesn’t need a bigger ego.’”

Ash scoffed but let it go. When he said his next words, he was looking at the ground intently, allowing his fringe to obscure his eyes. “I can never repay him for what he’s done for me…what any of you have done for me. I owe you all my life.”

Blanca’s face went rigid and his stomach twisted into knots at Ash’s words. And then, in the blink of an eye, he was kneeling in front of Ash, who winced. “Don’t. Ever. Say. That,” he bit out, his tone stern. “Your life is your own and belongs to no one else. Do you understand?”

Ash leaned away, taken aback by Blanca’s abrupt change in demeanor. “M-my bad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Blanca pulled back as well and frowned. He felt repentant for scaring Ash with his forceful reaction but he would not— _could_ not—budge on this matter. “I know you didn’t, Ash. But this is something you can never forget, all right?”

“Yeah,” Ash conceded, still surprised.

They stayed quiet for a long time until tempers cooled and Blanca reassumed his place next to Ash on the bench. A crow cawed and soared down onto the ground in front of them. It jerked its head to gawk at Blanca, then Ash, and then took flight again, as though it sensed the tension that still lingered in the atmosphere.

Ash kept his attention on the crow and fiddled with his coat sleeve as he spoke. “Where were we before my little trip down memory lane interrupted us?” His tone was meant to be joking but fell flat.

Blanca ignored the tremor in Ash’s voice and smirked, recovering some of his good humor. “We were talking about your experience with therapy.”

Ash scowled. He wished he could turn back time to five seconds ago. “Right…”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what made you consider therapy? It seems you’ve got quite a few grievances with it and you’re clearly unenthusiastic about it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ash answered, “I don’t know anyone in their right mind who’d ever be excited about therapy. I mean, you have to sit there and let some stranger with a degree poke and prod at you to reveal your deepest, darkest, most humiliating secrets.” The words were layered with agitation. “You have to relive all of the horrible things you’ve been through in your life. You’re forced to talk about why you feel filthy and hate yourself and they just…analyze and deconstruct you. They act like they understand you and feel compassionate towards your suffering when they really don’t. And then they throw you those awful pitying looks… I’m more than my past trauma, you know.” Ash’s jaw clenched and his body stiffened. He buried his face in his hands and took a shuddering breath. He could feel the tears materializing in his eyes. They were perilously close to falling despite his best efforts to will them back.

Blanca looked away to give Ash some privacy. His tangent had struck a cord. “Your final statement…negated the rest, you know. But I…can understand where you’re coming from.”

“It might be hard to believe but I’m really not against therapy. I don’t even know why I said all those things. I mean, I have my misgivings with it because the system has its flaws. But I wouldn’t have stuck with it after all these years if I didn’t think it helped in some way. I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t have considered it for myself i-if”—Ash took another deep breath from between his fingers—“ _he_ hadn’t convinced me. _He_ told me that I couldn’t keep running from my past, that it was unrealistic to hope everything would just magically disappear. _He_ wanted to find a way to help me come to terms with it…and therapy was one of _his_ solutions. I was skeptic when _he_ explained it to me but I humored _him_ nonetheless.” The tears started to dissipate and a brittle smile graced his face. “I always humored _him_ even when I thought _he_ was full of shit. But now…I can’t help but laugh at the irony of it all. When it comes to _him_ and _his_ death, even therapy isn’t cutting it.”

Blanca did his best to hide his surprise. Ash rarely, if ever, spoke about _him_ , about the Japanese boy who had turned his world upside down and changed him in fundamental ways for the better, the boy whose name he couldn’t recite aloud even after the passage of two years. Blanca wanted to call him out on it, force him to realize that _his_ name was not a curse word.

Instead, he replied, “The healing process is long and harrowing, especially if the wound is deep. It’s comparable to the rungs on a ladder; we have to take it one step at a time. After all, we’re only human. We can’t just teleport from the bottom to the top. And you know what the worst part is? It’s easy to fall off. It just takes one small slip off of a rung regardless of where you’re standing and you’re at the bottom, right where you started. When I lost…my wife, I didn’t think I would ever recover. It took me several years but I’m better now. I managed to climb part of that ladder. Though, there will always be a part of me that’ll remain…fractured. I’ve accepted that I’ll never make it to the top.”

“I’m sorry about Natasha,” Ash mumbled, his awkward sincerity seeping through, and Blanca couldn’t help but grin in response.

“Thank you. But I didn’t bring her up to evoke your pity. I’m trying to make a point.”

Lifting his hands from his face, Ash turned on his side and scribbled random patterns onto the bench’s wooden surface with his index finger. He felt pathetic. “I understand that. I really do. I know I can’t put my life on hold any longer. I know I can’t…stagnate. It’s just so hard, though. When life offers you hope far beyond your expectations, it hurts that much more when it’s shattered. When _he_ was near me, _his_ kindness and honesty, _his_ warmth…it all flowed right through me. It made me complete. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly masochistic, I scour through the memories and try to appreciate all the moments we shared, both the good and the bad. But then the pain hits, and I’m confronted with the fact that _he’ll_ never come back to me, that I’ll never get to experience any of it ever again. Yet at the same time, I’m terrified to forget. Everyday, I lose something, whether it be the tremendous pride in _his_ eyes when I told _him_ I was going to become a published author or the tenor of _his_ voice when _he_ yelled at me for throwing out _his_ natto after _he_ baked me a pumpkin pie.” He heaved a sigh that he felt in every inch of his body. “I struggle to think of _him_ , and I struggle not to think of _him_. I’m stuck in a catch-22.”

As Blanca listened to Ash speak, he realized something: Ash had accepted that _he_ was dead but hadn’t come to terms with the consequences of it. And he was pretty sure he knew one of the biggest reasons why.

It was now or never. This was why he had contacted Ash to talk in the first place. He spoke slowly, each word separate and distinct. “If I told you I knew the circumstances surrounding _his_ ”—Blanca felt like a hypocritical coward when he himself couldn’t say the name—“death, what would you say?”

Ash soaked in the question, toyed around with the words in his mind. He stared at Blanca, disbelieving and wide-eyed. But Blanca was staring straight ahead, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do, Ash.” He tried to be both firm and gentle. “Do you think it would make a difference if you knew more details regarding what happened to _him_?”

Ash pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. This whole conversation was giving him a headache and making him feel lightheaded and confused. Talking to Blanca was both compelling and exhausting. Part of him wanted out. But a louder, more desperate part of him wanted to pursue whatever discussion it was that Blanca was trying to initiate. After all, it was about _him_ and Ash was ready to take any scraps Blanca was willing to offer. His mind was being pulled in two separate directions, contradicting itself.

And then, words conveying his desperation tumbled out of his mouth. “Maybe. Maybe if I knew the truth, I could reconcile with it and move on with my life.” A lie. “But maybe it’d make things even worse, though I can’t imagine it being any worse than this.” He laughed once, no trace of humor in his voice. “So have at it. Tell me what you know.”

Blanca regarded Ash closely, absorbed the way Ash fisted his glasses, almost crushing it in his grasp. He wanted to reach over and pry away Ash’s shaking fingers but it was more important to give Ash his space. “Your glasses…”

“Huh?” Ash swiveled his head down to look at the glasses in his hand and his grip immediately loosened. His cheeks heated in embarrassment. He was an open book through and through.

“Are you sure you’re ready to hear this, Ash?” Blanca asked, apprehensive. “It’s not a happy story.”

Tears arose in Ash’s eyes again. He knew _he_ had suffered, of course. The photos and the letter made that apparent. However, hearing Blanca all but confirm it made it realer, more unbearable. “I need to know either way. Whether I’m ready or not doesn’t matter.”

The tightness in Blanca’s chest released itself as he reveled at Ash’s bravery. _The question is: are_ you _ready, Blanca?_ He closed his eyes and steeled himself against the onslaught of memories that assailed him. “Back when we found out that _he_ wouldn’t be coming back to New York, Ibe came to me and begged me to go to Afghanistan with him to the place where _he_ was last seen alive.”

Ash’s eyes widened in disbelief at this revelation.

“He told me he needed to know the truth. He didn’t want _him_ to be another statistic, another one of the countless people who were made victims of the war, whose stories were untold and therefore remain unknown to this day. He believed it was crucial for someone who personally knew _him_ to be aware of what had led to _his_ death so that _his_ legacy could live on.

“I respected what Ibe wanted and agreed to go along. At first, we thought it would be next to impossible to find someone who had known _him_. But somehow luck was on our side. Our search led us to a small village, where the majority of the people were underprivileged. When we spoke of _his_ name, recognition lit up their features, but they were frightened by us and were reluctant to tell us anything. After all, we were outsiders. We hadn’t done anything to warrant their trust. Yet, here we were, demanding a truth from them they were hesitant to share. Sometimes, I look back and think that we were no better than their oppressors…” He trailed off, became contemplative. The seconds ticked by but Ash waited, patient. And then, Blanca, recognizing that he was lost in his own mind, hastened back to the topic at hand. “Not to mention the fact that we had a language barrier to hurdle through.

“It didn’t take long for us to realize that coercing the villagers would get us nowhere. They seemed to respect _him_ , especially the children. But as people who were friends of the man they admired, we were leaving a bad impression on them with our intrusion and conceited behavior. So we begrudgingly chose to back off.

“Ibe and I started losing hope. We grew frustrated. At one point, I asked Ibe if he wanted to turn back but he wouldn’t hear of it. He told me I was free to go if I wanted. But I couldn’t leave him alone in this barren and strange wasteland. But before long…we met a young American soldier named Cain Blood. He’d befriended _him_ and knew what had happened. He told us everything.” Blanca stopped and observed Ash again.

Ash swallowed around the lump in his throat. He could hear his heart pulsating in his eardrums in a blend of anxiety and fear and expectation. “Go on,” he insisted. “I can… I can handle this.”

Blanca bowed his head and continued. “In the village was an orphanage which housed fifteen boys and girls. _He_ often visited them with Cain. They grew close to _him_ and were very fond of _him_. They looked up to _him_ as they would their older brother.

“However, one day, _he_ accidentally discovered a terrible secret: the orphanage was just a façade. In actuality, the facility was a…human trafficking ring masquerading as an orphanage. It was being operated by an American general named Frederick Arthur.” Blanca heard Ash’s sharp intake of breath but forged on. “When _he_ learned this, _he_ immediately went to Cain to enlist his help in rescuing the children. At first, Cain refused; it would put his squadron in danger. But his mindset quickly changed when he realized that _he_ was determined to free the children, with or without any assistance, even at the cost of _his_ own life. Cain asked _him_ why _he_ was willing to go to such drastic measures and _his_ response was: ‘Because I wasn’t there to protect the person who’s the most important to me. I would do anything for him and he would want me to do this. He would want me to save those kids. I have to do this for his sake.’” Even though Blanca didn’t risk looking at Ash to see his reaction, he could only imagine the expression on Ash’s face. His throat constricted in response. “Would you like for me to stop?”

“N-No,” Ash choked out.

Blanca nodded and stood. He wandered around to the back of the bench, keeping a safe distance between Ash and himself. He eyed the tree Ash had dented earlier. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Ash kept his eyes glued to the ground, on the bracken and mud. His hands were clenched together in his lap, tendons protruding under his pallid skin. A few tears escaped and stained his face.

“The day before the rescue mission, _he_ told Cain that _he_ didn’t expect to survive, that _he_ wasn’t afraid of dying if it was for the right reasons. _He_ just had one regret: if _he_ died, then _he_ would be breaking _his_ promise to _his_ most important person. And so _he_ wrote a letter to said person and mixed it in with some photos. _His_ plan was to only mail the package if _he_ was one hundred percent certain that _he_ wouldn’t make it back alive, if _he_ had absolutely no hope. But before _he_ sealed everything in an envelope, Cain was able to catch a glimpse of the photos. And what he saw scared him. It alarmed him to the fact that _he_ was in a bad place both mentally and emotionally. This month-long assignment had been butchering _him_ from the inside out.

“The following night, they snuck into the facility and saved every single one of the children, who were then taken to a shelter and placed in the protection of the American army. But as _he_ , Cain, and Cain’s men were escaping, Arthur arrived on scene and attempted to capture them. In the ensuing fray, several of Cain’s companions died. Even Arthur himself was killed.

“Cain wanted to protect _him_ so that _he_ wouldn’t have to break _his_ promise. Without thinking, he told _him_ to run, to use their military truck and get away as far as possible. _He_ wanted to argue; _he_ couldn’t abandon Cain. Thus, Cain made a promise of his own: that he would survive and they would meet again under better circumstances.

“Two days later, _his_ military truck was found in a valley, just 60 miles east of the village. It had been bombed and had consequently fallen off a mountain trail at a height of approximately 120 feet. Parties were sent out to locate _his_ body, but they were unsuccessful and abandoned the search after two days; no one could withstand such a fall.

“Ibe and I went to the site ourselves to verify Cain’s claims and he was right; there’s no possible way _he_ survived. The terrain there was too jagged and the slope was incredibly steep. Even if _he_ had somehow managed to endure the fall, the wildlife or dehydration would’ve caught up with _him_ sooner rather than later. Only a miracle could have saved him.”

Ash wasn’t sure whether he believed in miracles or not. Up to this point, his life had been too complicated for that. But he recognized one truth: _he_ was dead. Otherwise, _he_ wouldn’t have sent the letter and the photos, splotched with _his_ blood and tears. Instead, _he_ would’ve returned to Ash and their simple quiet life in NYC, just like _he’d_ vowed.

Despair, loss, and loneliness roiled in the pit of Ash’s stomach, nauseating him. Grief wasn’t supposed to cause physical pain, and yet he found himself doubled over, clutching at his abdomen, and trying to quash the bile that threatened to spew from his throat. He felt as if a hole had plowed its way through his chest, ripping out his lungs and leaving unhealed serrated lacerations in its wake. He’d dealt with panic before but this was not quite the same; even though a scorching throb circulated through his limbs, he realized he could bear it.

Blanca’s revelation of the truth hadn’t lessened the pain. It was just as intense as it had been that first day, during those first months. But he found that he had grown stronger, enough to be able to tolerate it.

“What did you and Ibe-san do afterwards?” he forced himself to say.

Blanca twisted his head to squint up at the sky. The clouds looming closer foreshadowed an imminent storm. “We arrived back to the States as planned. However, a few days later, Ibe contacted Max and me and told us that he would be gone for an indefinite period. He had to attend a funeral first… _His_ parents and sister had passed away in a car accident and Ibe wanted to make his peace, honor them. And then, he planned to travel the world because he needed time to himself away from here…to grieve. I remember trying to call him to see how he was doing…and finding out that he had changed his phone number. Max was distraught to say the least. _He_ was dead, you were catatonic”—he grimaced—“and Ibe was MIA. It all culminated into something ugly and Max didn’t know what to do. You were hospitalized on several occasions, do you remember?”

Ash vaguely recalled the details, of being stuck on an IV drip, of seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist in the hospital, of Max and Blanca hovering over him in concern, of Shorter always staying by his side, of learning that Ibe-san wasn’t there and they didn’t know when or if he would return. But as he sifted through those murky memories, he couldn’t remember ever having been told that _his_ family was dead. “They’re…dead? _His_ family is gone?”

Blanca shook his head in confirmation but Ash couldn’t see. “The accident occurred about two months after the events that had transpired in Afghanistan.”

They fell silent, letting the words linger in the air. Blanca had divulged a massive amount of information and Ash needed time to dissect the weight of it all. But thunder rumbled in the sky and raindrops began to descend to the earth, halting any further conversation.

“Shall we head back?” Blanca stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Excuse me.” He covered his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ash studied his surroundings. The park was almost empty save for a few stragglers. Everyone else had left to seek shelter from the rain. “I guess so. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.” He stood, his glasses back on, and his hands tucked in his coat pockets.

“I apologize. I threw too much at you at once.”

“No. I needed to know this. So…thanks for telling me.”

Blanca surveyed Ash in wonder but Ash didn’t meet his gaze. Side by side, they walked back in the direction they’d come.


End file.
